


lover, hunter, friend and enemy

by NorthSong



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Brief suicidal ideation, Canon Compliant, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Past Relationship(s), brief mention of fire/arson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-10
Updated: 2020-06-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24635275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthSong/pseuds/NorthSong
Summary: He will not succumb to wild conjecture, driven by emotions that should have long since withered on the vine. The description is almost uselessly vague, truly- particularly when the existence of hair dye and false scars expands the scope of possibilities so much.It could be anyone.Gronder Field leaves the Alliance victorious, the Faerghus king dead and the Empire fighting an increasingly defensive war. Hubert does his part without hesitation or respite, and thinks no more on what else of his was left to die on the battlefield.Until months later, when a dodged social engagement and a crime suspect's description in the capital leaves him haunted.
Relationships: Dedue Molinaro/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	lover, hunter, friend and enemy

_The Rusalvel West guild-office burned last night in the Dawnside district, beginning some time after the second bell from midnight._

Hubert von Vestra sips his coffee and slides the report with a business name he recognizes out of the small, neat spread of documents on his desk marked by his staff to be of similar priority ( _mild urgency_ , nothing more escalated than that, for once. Well, the day is young.)

_No deaths, one man with minor injuries, the only one on the grounds at the time. The main building is heavily damaged, probably lost. Some fire spread to the storage sheds but comparatively little. Contained by the city watch before it got further._

The count continues to scan the document, thoughtful. The agents and staff that report directly to him, filtering and funneling information through the spider’s web, know better than to inject theories or presuppositions into their missives. So even with only the naked facts before him, the incident strikes him as... _suspect_. Possibly even to a scope that includes him, rather than a routine matter for the city watch and district guardsmen. 

He does have other plans for part of the day, an (ugh) _dinner party_ . Distasteful as he finds them, he knows perfectly well that social engagements are all part of the theater of war in their own way. But…. the Baron von Erhardt fears neither god nor man, has three unattached daughters, and makes no secret of his belief that they’d be wonderful matches for the distinctly bachelor Minister of the Imperial Household. Alas for Hubert, the noble’s also staunchly loyal to Edelgard and it’s vital that he _remain_ so to continue holding the coast against forays from Brigid or Dagda (or any navy von Riegan can put together), so the Emperor has strictly forbidden Hubert from displaying anything but courtesy, nor arranging any silent misfortunes.

Hubert swiftly pens a few orders and notes and sends them on their way. Oh dear. The suspect-or-witness to this potential crime will be arriving for processing this early evening, once the preliminary investigation is done, and the security of the capital takes priority over previous commitments. Regrettable.

Edelgard will sigh and say something about _delegating, Hubert,_ but she’ll certainly understand that many tasks benefit from his direct involvement. And he _will_ delegate. Others can do the primary examination, take the records of the statement from the city guards that arrived on the scene, look over the damage and report back to him. He’ll just… oversee, where needed. The left hand of the Emperor, whether invisible or in person, often goads subordinates to greater industry and enemies to greater terror. 

Yes, of course this all could be a simple accident, but he cannot pass this incident off unremarked. Arson has ever been a favorite tool of dissidents, spies and other sundry malcontents, after all. Cheap and simple to implement (if not always effectively execute), excellent for sowing fear and disruption, and what do such men and women care of the damage done to buildings and livelihoods of the Empire’s citizens? 

Of _particular_ interest is that this particular builder’s guild was one of several contracted to perform repairs and minor improvements on the Imperial palace. Normally it’d be an obvious target for anyone of ill-intent, but… they were very nearly _done_ , and the other guilds have already sent prompt assurance that it will be no trouble for them to pick up the miniscule slack, according to his agent. A theoretical rebel or spy chose their timing badly if they wanted to impede the (ideally unnecessary) bolstering of the castle’s defenses. 

Questions, questions. Let the court simper and maneuver and debate and matchmake over brandy and croquettes. He’ll find answers. 

~~~

Most of the day later, Hubert feels he’s answered only one thing with complete certainty:

This is not, in fact, preferable to an evening of being plied with wine and marriage contracts.

He restrains the urge to rub his temples as the beleaguered employee of Rusalvel West- Wallis something (or something Wallis, he truly does not care to recall at the moment) continues his testimony. And continues it. At _length._

A crutch leans near the doorway, out of easy reach lest he be possessed of the suicidal urge to try and bludgeon his questioner or the silent clerk. His leg had been badly broken on a different job a few weeks prior, so while healing he’d been sentenced to keeping the offices in order. He often stayed late at his tasks, he’d been quick to proclaim virtuously. 

( _Drinking,_ suggests another quarter -the statement from the guard who first spoke to the man on the scene swore up and down that he could smell alcohol even through the smoke and singed hair, and other employees had shared suspicions that he _did_ often medicate the pains of his injury in such a way.)

The wretch is clearly well aware that suspicion might fall on him and is nakedly desperate to self-exculpate, launching into exhaustive detail of every man, woman and child he’s ever known that could possibly have some tenuous, hypothetical motive to accomplish the crime (or accident). Callista records every word without a quiver of complaint, her pen moving faster than the man can speak with her particular shorthand style, while Hubert begins to think ardently of his specially blended spice tea back in the Vestra apartments to ease the throbbing in his temples- or that not being an option, throttling the witless idiot to stifle his excuses and protestations at last. 

Something of his blacker mood or the lethal itch in his fingertips must come across, for the man soon lurches and stumbles forward over his words like a drunk on uneven ground to finally conclude and trail off into sweated silence. Hubert will yet be here until the _next_ Millennium Festival if he begins poking at every lie and omission and flight of speculation in that epistle, so at the risk of laxness, he does not. He’ll read the damned transcription later and leave lesser members of his office to complete the investigation. 

Just one more salient point to sort out. “Very… informative.” he notes after a long pause and thin smile that has the fellow shrinking back in his chair another inch. “And your miraculous escape from the second floor of a building that burned to the ground, with one good leg? Did the Goddess bear you down on her wings?” 

The cretin’s face, ruddy from his passionate recitation, blanches anew. “No, of course not, my lord! When I woke up and smelled the smoke, I went to the window and scr- called for help.” he hastily explains. “Someone heard, for just before I decided to jump rather than burn, he came and got me down the stairs and out.”

Hubert tilts his head slightly. “And who is this bold hero, who charges into burning buildings to rescue the helpless, yet vanishes before the city guards arrive?” he inquires, not needing to affect bored half-disinterest.

The builder balks for half a moment, then brightens. “Ah, you- you think he might have had something to do with it, Minister? Th-then of course, whatever you need to know. But I swear on the Goddess’s tears that I never met the fellow before or since. A-and he never spoke a single word in my hearing.” 

So eager to sell his rescuer out to save his own hide. _Faithless dastard_. “Describe him.”

“ _Large._ ” is the first thing that comes to mind, evidently. “I c-confess he carried me when I stumbled the second time.” (Hubert eyes the man- only a hair shorter than himself, and _considerably_ more stout and muscular and well-fleshed with a life of physical labor and regular tavern visits- and wonders how plausible that is.) “Dark-skinned. Scarred, I think.” He furrows his singed brows, evidently picking through memories of terror and flame-lit flashes. “...Green eyes. O-or maybe blue?” 

And that scant, fragmented description, combined with _‘someone who could and would enter a burning building and carry out a stranger, then immediately leave_ ’-

Hubert suddenly feels very, very cold.

_It’s not possible_ is his first thought, then immediately checks himself- of _course_ it’s possible, he never saw a corpse with his own eyes or heard a credible account of D- of Dimitri’s vassal’s death. It’s simply- not terribly likely, or perhaps… incongruous. He’s closely read every last innumerable report in the past months from informants in the Alliance, Garreg Mach, the leaderless Kingdom, and not one mentions the Faerghus king’s vassal, his shadow, his shield since the (most recent) Battle of Gronder Field. 

“Hair?” he prompts, his voice sounding thin and distant to his own ears. Callista’s pen hesitates perhaps half a breath before resuming. 

“...Dark. Black, or perhaps brown.” The man mops his brow again with a much-stained handkerchief. “F-forgive me, the light was poor."

The detail provides no relief. _Dye is easy enough to obtain._

Strange. It’s not like him to have such... impulsive flights of supposition. Stranger still is the whisper of alien dread that crawls through his veins when he’s obliged to consider that there’s a chance, however slim, that his old flame could be alive and in the capital right now, in a way that it _doesn’t_ when he’s been in the war room planning for the advancing Alliance army. 

Nonetheless, the remainder of the questioning proceeds without incident. Hubert scarcely glances up as the trembling man is escorted away to conditional freedom, focusing on keeping his thoughts in line like a fractious carriage team. “Cross-check those names and descriptions in whatever other reports or notes you can find on disturbances inside the capital with still-unidentified suspects.” he orders his assistant, glancing at the sheaf of cipher from the builder’s earlier litany of his suspicions. “...Only check the last six months for any mention of that last one, his _‘savior’_.” If he’s wrong… well, he’ll be glad for it. 

Callista nods mutely (literally- a footpad had done a slapdash job of cutting her throat in an alley, and three days later she had returned to work pale-faced, dead-set and clutching pen and parchment like sword and shield- Hubert had her transferred to his office as soon as he heard). It will be done as he requests. 

He will not succumb to wild conjecture, driven by emotions that should have long since withered on the vine. The description is almost uselessly vague, truly- particularly when the existence of hair dye and false scars expands the scope of possibilities so much.

It could be anyone.

~~~

He leaves the palace dungeons alone, passing through the guard posts like a breath of poison through fangs curved and gleaming, soldiers nodding in deference or just averting their eyes as though they fear eye contact might draw the attention of the minister in his stained clothing. _Must do something about that, sooner rather than later_ \- it’d be disastrous if the Agarthans were bold enough to use his semblance to their own purpose. 

Hubert shakes his head once, slightly, bringing his attention back to his surroundings, the last corridor before exiting the dungeon area proper-

And pauses.

Images of the so-called Goddess, Saints and Heroes are less common in the palace than they were a few years ago- the easily transportable artwork like paintings and smaller statues have been judiciously removed and auctioned off over time, gilt and gemstones stripped from others and the resulting monies put to use to the relief of the poor and needed improvements and repairs around the capital. They could definitely have used the funds for the war effort (Edelgard privately admitted) but the people were less likely to foster dissent about the disposal and defacing of religious artwork if it was framed as stripping displays of gross vanity and decadence to instead benefit the people directly.

But some remain. Like this one, a tall relief in the stone of the hallway’s end, unadorned but for a few simple glass or mica chips to make the Blue Sea Star and the Goddess’s eyes glitter, rendered in bold, almost minimalist lines only just starting to show signs of weathering.

Curious place for an image of the progenitor goddess. What inspired some generations-past artist to put her likeness here? Did they wish her to stare down divine judgement at the poor fools dragged past her in shackles, or give the condemned feeble hope of redemption in life or death, or simply to smile bland benevolence upon the servants of House Hresvelg as they go about their business, rank with the blood and shit and terror of the imprisoned? 

_Oh, Hubert,_ whispers a voice oddly twinned- one half gentle and wise and mature, the other… high, impish, with a child’s careless malice. 

He flinches. Walks on, perhaps just a hair more briskly. He definitely needs more rest.

~~~

The servant he rang had dared a baffled glance before fleeing before the Minister’s glare to fetch what he had requested- but he needs no pleasant tastes or nostalgic flavors now, Hubert reminds himself as he forces down another sip of the hideously sweet and floral tea that’s doing absolutely _nothing_ for his headache. 

He paces the floor, dressed for bed but putting it off in favor of trying to untangle his thoughts. He cannot afford bad or altered judgement calls, especially not now, so he seeks to follow the threads and straighten them out with logic rather than useless emotional impulses. 

His regretted Majesty, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd is dead. And of course Hubert- and anyone who met the two of them- would know that his vassal would have thrown himself in front of any number of blows before letting harm befall him. So: why could he have possibly not been there to do so, or at least to (possibly) fall alongside his liege? He’d have had to be dead or unable to follow, and the context indicates that the former was more likely, between Dimitri being willing to rush off in a rage rather than tend his fallen companion, and the lack of intelligence indicating that the man had been seen alive since. 

(And hadn’t that been a bit of an odd moment, reeling from having to retreat, driven off the field, then receive a report _days_ later that the Faerghus king was dead, having been picked off by Imperial archers even as they scrambled away from Gronder in disgrace, all unknowing of who they’d shot down?

He half-wished that the Alliance had been responsible, honestly. Even these months later, the Empire’s forces still reported daily disciplinary actions as (it seemed) every soldier that’d ever held a bow claimed that _they_ were most certainly the one to slay the last of the Blaiddyd line, and would fistfight anyone who dared dispute it.)

And so he’d spent the intervening months oddly... suspended as the years-long ache of missing a man he’d known for ten-odd months slowly bled away in favor of a kind of quiet grief to be shared with no one, punctuated by the odd needle-sharp sting of doubt now and then. 

Dedue. Missing _Dedue_ . _He has a_ name _, imbecile, using it damned well won’t summon him on the spot,_ he castigates himself silently. 

And- perhaps morbidly- in those private moments where he’d allowed himself to believe that… that Dedue was truly dead, if it no longer mattered what feelings may or may not have been held that one not-quite-year at Garreg Mach, it was easier to think of him. It was _safe_ to think of him, to remember-

_Dedue idly swiping sweat off his brow while carefully racking practice weapons after training. The small half-huff, half-chuckle when someone’s comment amuses him unexpectedly._ _Sunlight in the greenhouse striking strange reflections onto dark skin, coloring silver-white hair in diffuse spots of greens and red and gold-_

With effort, the mage forces his thoughts away. It is no longer safe, and perhaps never was. 

~~~

A couple of days later in his office with a distressing array of papers spread before him, Hubert von Vestra has cause to remind himself that he does not believe in ghosts.

Some of his fellow generals do. Caspar does, but does not particularly fear them. Linhardt strenuously avoids the subject, as he does any discussions of death and its metaphysical consequences. Bernadetta… well, she’s so terrified of everything that ghosts are probably a non-issue. And as the war goes on, he’s been more and more likely to come across Dorothea in the dead of night, pale and disheveled, twitching at shadows and sounds he can’t perceive. 

If _he_ ever did as a child, his father promptly disabused him of the notion. _Superstitions are for commoners and fools, boy,_ his voice comes, unbidden, evidently unaware of the irony. _There should be nothing more frightening in the darkness than_ you _._

So Hubert von Vestra does _not_ believe in ghosts.

But... reading the same words over and over again, often in different orders, often with just enough differences or additions to induce doubt, just enough that they _could_ conceivably all be different individuals, none of the documents involving someone actually speaking to the person (persons)- 

_Tall. dark skinned. scarred. unscarred. large, muscular build. green eyes. blue eyes. hair of every color known to Fodlán-_

-he wonders if he’s being haunted, regardless.

~~~

The _Priest and Brigand_ was once one of the most popular inns in this particular district of the capital. Not precisely high-class, but comfortable enough to attract a variety of clientele- merchants, artists, travelers- even the occasional noble pinching their coppers a little. 

Not that Hubert’s ever stayed at an _inn_ inside _Enbarr_ . He only knows all this because roughly a year ago, an investigation turned up that the place was serving rather more than sautéed fish and tarts. He himself had stormed the place with some of his handpicked agents and walked out with half a dozen dissidents who’d been regularly arranging to talk merchants into trading only with the Alliance, abandoning contracts and agreements with Adrestia. An incident notable only for its banality; there’d been virtually no resistance. _Pity._

The owner had been cleared of wrongdoing, but wisely, within a month they shut the establishment down, sold what was worth selling and were last seen on a ship to Nuvelle. Now the building’s on some list or another in the palace of structures suitable for conversion to housing for wounded soldiers, healthy soldiers or even displaced refugees, should it become necessary. 

And now he’s back, alone this time, masquerading as just another Empire citizen on the streets in the damp, drizzling evening- though the subterfuge is hardly necessary, as the streets around here are no longer trafficked since the inn’s closure- even less so with the hour and the weather.

It had taken a few weeks for the instructions he’d had circulated to his agents in the capital to bear results, rather than more infuriatingly brief and vague scraps in the margins of regular reports. He dared not _dedicate_ any people to chasing this particular phantom, not with how much his staff has been depleted over the course of the war and how long it takes to find and train replacements up to standard. 

Nor does he dare risk instructing them to investigate possible leads too closely. If the mystery individual is savvy enough to be any threat of consequence, he’ll go to ground or move if he suspects he’s been tracked.

So it’s perhaps not surprising that it took so long for a particularly sharp-eyed informant to both spot a possible match to Hubert’s description and glean even an educated guess on somewhere he’d gone (a difficult prospect, she’d emphasized- the man seemed exceptionally perceptive and wary, and it’d taken her a few careful days to get results).

Slipping inside is simple, despite the building being boarded up for the most part. His informant had saved him some time by managing to espy a broken shutter on one of the upstairs windows with the aid of a spyglass. It’s unlikely to be most intruders’ choice of entry, but a talented and powerful magic-user is a different matter- he’s levitated up and carefully pushed aside the shutter in the space of a few breaths, silent as a shadow.

Soon, he pads slowly down the hallway, working in near-total darkness- only summoning a tiny wisp of light when needed, shielded in his cupped palm lest anyone lurking inside one of the rooms notice it from under the doorframe. It’s the floorboards he’s examining, minutely- that, and the doorknobs to each of the rooms here on the upper floor, searching for disturbances in a years’ accretion of dust and grime. 

He’s beginning to think ahead on how to get down to the lower floor safely when finally the faint illumination shows clear (to the attentive eye) smudges where the dust has been disturbed and pushed aside by passing footfalls. More than one trip, surely, since individual prints can’t be distinguished. And then in short order, a nearby doorknob reflects his little light brightly off its brass, instead of the dulled tarnish and begriming of the others. 

After a prudent period of listening for any sound on the other side of the door and sending out a flicker of magic to feel for any traps, Hubert has the lock picked in a trice and slips inside after silently readying a Miasma spell in his palms, just in case- but no, there’s nothing alive in the room by the hazy purple glow, so he switches back to a more mundane magical light to investigate.

The room’s nearly barren at first glance, scarcely livable- just a bedframe with a thin mattress and a couple of folded blankets and scratchy-looking pillow, a simple nightstand with a lantern resting on top and a candle or two, and the window, shuttered of course. But once he quietly rounds the bed- _ah._ Several large bags, tucked close to the furniture to avoid being spotted by anyone who simply poked a head into the room and looked no closer. 

And- and more. A sheathed axe, double-bladed and huge enough to behead a warhorse in its barding, by the looks of it. A second one, single-bladed, somewhat more modestly sized. 

Hubert’s pulse ticks up. 

Still not enough. Still too circumstantial. 

He crouches by the nearer of the bags and unfastens it one-handed, ears still peeled for any untoward sounds, but the patter of the rain on the shutters and the soft shifting and settling of a large, vacant wooden building is all he detects as he begins to quickly sort through the pack’s contents. 

A leather satchel inside catches his eye first- no, just a couple of vulneraries and concoctions, neatly wrapped in cloth to stop them clinking. (Perhaps he’ll confiscate those; their forces can never have enough.) Rope coil. A few travel rations. A small bundle of inkpens tied together with twine.

Something thick and soft meets his gloved fingertips near the bottom of the bag and he pulls it out towards the light- and freezes.

~~~

_He’s staring upwards at a dingy tent canvas while a nun twitters at him about how the break should heal swift and cleanly, and the racket of the Church and academy students called upon to help nearby villages stricken with mudslides continues outside. When he can bear it no longer, he glances away to the side to see a length of muddy fabric balled up by his cot, the colors and exotic patterns still distinct through the muck. An inquiring look at the nun prompts immediate results - “Oh, that? It was tied around your arm and body to immobilize the break when you were brought here-”_

_He stops listening. Reaches for the scarf with his good arm, and does not think about the alien sensation in his chest._

_~~~_

The colors have faded somewhat over the years, he can see spots where rents have been re-sewn, but even in the cool light of Hubert’s magic, he knows this garment. 

Well. He squeezes the scarf so tightly that his finger joints creak loudly. Well, _now_ what-

_-no, imbecile, that was the hallway floor-_

He surges to his feet, dropping the cloth at once. Reflexes honed to a razor edge since childhood, tempered by war, he’s already casting as he turns, fingers tingling in anticipation of the dark magic poised to tear through them, powerful enough to turn its target into meat shreds-

Too late. Or there was never _going_ to be enough time. There’s only the impression of a huge figure slamming through the doorway and surging across scant paces into the room in one movement before pain explodes in the side of Hubert’s neck and the spell-pattern still forming in his mind promptly splinters and dissolves, his sight whitening-

_Careless. Sentimental_. his father’s voice spits as his thoughts fragment under the shock-

_And now-_

_-dead-_

~~~

_Or perhaps not._

From long practice, Hubert’s eyes do not instinctively open when he gains consciousness- and consciousness it must be, as he’s reasonably hopeful that whatever afterlife awaits him wouldn’t come with a still-nearly-blinding pain in the side of his neck ( _broken, broken, surely broken, crippled for life_ shrieks an instinctive, panicky thought he has to forcefully quell)- so he keeps them closed and his breathing regular as he assesses what he can.

He’s… on his back, arms at his sides. His left shoulder aches, though the pain is nothing to that in his neck. Whatever he’s resting on is somewhat softer than just _floor_. Gently, cautiously he twitches his toes inside his boots, notes the reassuring hard points of his hidden blades on various parts of his body- presumably his garrote wire is still neatly coiled under the fold of his collar, too. 

And even the act of breathing reveals something immediately notable- there’s something on his chest, some gentle but broad pressure that’s fortunately not interfering with his ability to take full breaths. 

He could continue this indefinitely, patiently gathering information and waiting for the right opportunity to break free, but-

“That was unwise.” comes a voice- low. Soft. Raspy, either dry or disused. And perfectly, immediately recognizable.

And there, in the space of moments- all of Hubert’s careful rationale, all the justifications, all his unflinching resolve to not _assume_ anything about the identity of the mystery person or persons he’d been hunting- all of it burns in an instant, leaving a lump of smoking slag making a home in his gut and fouling his breath. 

An exhale, short and ragged. Past time to open his eyes, it seems. 

He does it slowly. Nevertheless, in the modest lantern-light, Dedue seems to loom an impossible distance above Hubert for a disorienting moment before he can focus, expectation clashing with reality at the sight of not moon-pale hair framing his features but night-black instead- ( _dyed, he was right to suspect, and does that choice of color mean anything-_ )

Irrelevant thoughts _._ More relevant is perceiving his situation better. He’s... flat on his back on the room’s thin mattress, arms at his sides. Dedue’s on his right, one leg planted on the ground- the other, knee to booted ankle, spanning Hubert’s narrow chest and arms horizontally like a restraining strap over an bedbound infirmary patient. ...Though a leather strap doesn’t have the implicit threat of a couple hundred pounds of weight poised to shatter ribs and flatten lungs if Dedue intends it or even simply loses his balance. His own legs are free, but nothing’s in range to kick and there isn’t leverage enough to match even a fraction of the force Dedue can exert in this position. 

There are surely even _less_ arousing ways to be pinned to a bed, but Hubert finds he’s not in the mood to consider them. What matters right now is that he’s been trapped as neatly as a beetle pinned to a card, and Dedue still even has his hands free. What matters is that Dedue forbore to finish him while he was stunned. 

What also matters is that his tongue has always been as dangerous a weapon as any other, as long as he can manage not to cut his own throat on the edge.

Can’t provoke Dedue. Can’t call his bluff, for bluff it is most certainly _not_ despite the current forbearance, he’ll wager his life on it. He’s talented enough at getting people to do as he bids, but with intimidation, threats, tempting offers and deadly insinuations removed from his arsenal, his options are somewhat concerningly limited at the moment.

So the last recourse of all; truth, with all the endless excuses and equivocations peeled away-

“...I had to know.”

Silence.

“I was sick of wondering. _Doubting_. Thinking I’d run mad for suddenly seeing your shadow in the reports so long after you… after word of the king’s shield stopped.” Bitterness and self-disgust veins through his tone, despite his efforts to keep his voice even. 

(Another burning question in his core he doesn’t dare voice: _how long has Dedue been in Enbarr_ ? How long did something this dangerous slip Hubert’s nets, and what _else_ is he missing, if this could happen?) 

More silence. But Hubert bears it this time: he will give no more without getting. 

Finally, Dedue makes a short, neutral noise, glancing away for a moment -and stops half-kneeling on Hubert’s chest, freeing him.

He stands up and off the bed slowly without turning his head, both to avoid aggravating his injury and keenly aware that the Duscurian ceding his overwhelming advantage doesn’t mean he’s _surrendering_ to capture or attack by any means. 

Upright, he can finally see Dedue’s face more clearly, catalogue the sometimes subtle differences. His hair’s different, besides the dye- shaved at the sides, a bit longer, swept to one side rather than tied back. And though he’d already more or less exited adolescence by the time they met at Garreg Mach, his features are still… slightly changed. Like a painter smoothing out the last faint remnants of the underlying rougher sketch, refining, perfecting-

...and then taking a blade to it in a rage. Those scars...

He bites the inside of his cheek savagely enough to draw blood, successfully shocking himself out of the useless and _highly inappropriate_ impulse to trace them with fingertips or tongue. Focuses on the Duscurian’s dark green gaze instead, framed by still-white lashes like frost- and then wishes he had not.

Because the look in Dedue’s eyes is _not_ unreadable, as he’d thought (or deluded himself) at first glance. He’s seen it many times in the intervening years- a hazy, bone-deep pain and quiet resignation he’s witnessed exclusively in the eyes of men and women bleeding out from mortal wounds, in the moments before the mercy stroke.

In a flash, comprehension strikes and he knows the reason for the icy fear creeping under his skin, climbing his spine-

The king is dead.

Dedue is here.

Dedue is _here,_ and that means- that means- 

He can no longer brush off the whispers in the palace, the black, unwelcome thoughts in his head that say _what will you do if Edelgard dies_ with _I will be dead before that happens._

Before him stands the truth in six feet and seven-odd inches; he _could_ survive the death of the liege he’s devoted everything to. He could _go on_. The inescapable knowledge is bitter to him like rot, like acid. 

“...Five years. So much _longer_ than we knew each other.” he spits. Suddenly unable to bear the rank absurdity of it all, that what ought to amount to a short-lived _fling_ can still affect him so many years later, he tears his gaze away, turning aside sharply-

Too sharply- he hisses, fresh agony bolting up his neck from the ill-considered motion and exploding behind his eyes-

He keeps his feet. He’s endured worse than this. He’s done worse than this _to himself._

Still, he must waver however briefly, because he’s suddenly aware of five warm points on his upper arm- the lightest, most automatic of support, and looks up to see Dedue’s green eyes slightly widened-

_Ah._ So he’s not the only one so... _afflicted_. He’s not sure whether to be comforted or horrified that they share this, too. 

Dedue blinks and moves to pull back, realization evidently catching up. Quick as a viper’s bite, Hubert grabs his wrist out of reflex, gloved fingers digging into tendons, and they both freeze.

A fraught moment later, he carefully lets go. “Apologies.” is all he can say, the word dry and worthless as dust.

Another moment. 

“...Hubert.” 

And Hubert hesitates, trying and failing not to think of how the last time Dedue said his name, the winter sun was shining too damnably bright and the steam of cinnamon tea flavored the air, completely unlike this dank and dingy building interior- and almost misses the man in question starting to shift position.

His movements are deliberate, steady, not to startle. Hubert could easily step away, pull aside, but he’s frozen for a moment, suddenly unable to analyze what Dedue is doing- 

And then he is- his arms are-

And then Hubert von Vestra _literally_ cannot think of what to do, or indeed anything at all. 

When he can once again string two thoughts together, he is- warm. Enveloped. In partial darkness, with his own hands between their chests, fisting the fabric of Dedue’s shirt there- when _that_ happened, he has no recollection- and shaking minutely like he’s got a palsy. 

“Damn you-” he hisses, hating himself for not pulling away, for the half of him that’s relishing Dedue’s warmth, his nearness, for how right it feels to tuck his face close to the Duscurian’s collarbone, the rough weave of his dark shirt- “- _damn you_ , you shouldn’t have come, there’s _nothing_ for you here-” 

He’s choking on his own venom, any number of cruelties or malices to enrage or distress with boiling in his chest, tearing at the tissues in his throat in their eagerness to escape, a welter of lies and half-truth alike- _I burned your letter unread. I destroyed everything you ever_ touched. _Your wretched king deserved what he got. I deliberately seduced you, knowing I would destroy you and he both in the end. How long did you weep over his rotting_ corpse _-_ anything to spark anger or despair or hatred in Dedue, he can deal with _that_ , not- whatever _this_ is. 

The bile’s only prevented from spilling out by one of Dedue’s hands shifting up between Hubert’s shoulders, a warm weight making small movements there. Somehow it eases him, makes it simpler to grit his teeth violently and keep mastery of himself, just. 

“...Not quite true.” Dedue says after a moment into the ragged silence.

Aghast, Hubert jerks up, glancing his crown off Dedue’s jaw in the process. “You didn’t-”

The corner of Dedue’s mouth looks like it remembers a smile, terrible in its brevity. “No. But I did miss you.”

The mage huffs weakly, affected in spite of himself by the naked admission. “So. You came seeking misaimed vengeance- your lord fell, now so must another, until you’ve piled enough corpses to balance it? I thought better of you.” he spits instead of succumbing. He will _not_ think on whether he might want the same if Edelgard fell to Faerghus forces.

He feels Dedue shake his head, just. “I do wish Edelgard dead.” he breathes softly- words that by rights should be the last anyone utters in Hubert’s presence- “It was Dimitri’s desire- more than that, _she_ started the war that killed him, let her tell the thousands of corpses and their families that they were- they were _mulch_ for some grand future they’ll never see-” and the mage stiffens, a flicker of surprised horror like a rat that sees the trap-bar snapping over its neck too late-

“And yet.” Softer still, halting, the barest utterance against Hubert’s ear. “I cannot- I could never wish-” A convulsive shudder runs through the Duscurian’s massive form, not violent, but pressed this close he can feel every movement-

“-for you to feel the way that I have felt. Since _he_ died.”

_Foolishness_ . Hubert thinks but does not say, even as he sags very slightly against the bigger man. _A paradox_ . The two desires are irreconcilable. Yet has that not been the theme for the duration of their… dalliance, entanglement, whatever it was? Two men, so similar and so dissimilar, circling closer and closer despite knowing from the outset that it would _never_ last, witless in their confidence that the years to come would ease the sting of any aborted relationship? 

_Lamplight gilding dark skin glimmering with drying sweat, dramatically juxtaposed on the crimson and white bedding. Almost, the lassitude unlocks his tongue, loosing terrible secrets, offers, promises- Traitorous, unreasonable thoughts, quickly and violently quashed- if only I were_ just _a noble and you_ just _a wayward blacksmith’s son-_

But they’re not. Even with Dimitri dead, Dedue hasn’t… lessened, or reverted. He is who he was before, just now with grief enough to drown in. 

With effort, Hubert unbends his fingers from their death grip in Dedue’s shirt, the minute shakes easing as he slides his hands up from chest to shoulders, seeking further contact even through multiple layers of fabric, rewarded when the taller man’s breathing hitches and his arms shift slightly.

They’ve never once forgotten their duty, no matter how entangled they became. But they managed to set it aside, again and again, always with the silent undercurrent of _it’s all right, I will do what needs to be done when necessary. Afterwards._

He’d thought they were all out of _afterwards_ when Edelgard called for him in the Holy Mausoleum and they’d departed in a burst of dark magic, cravenly grateful that it was the Golden Deer there to witness it rather than the Lions.

But now… there’s this. Chance or providence has come calling, and Hubert finds himself too weak to turn it down. 

For the last time.

~~~

For a little while, time progresses in fits and starts and long, attenuated fogs of potential, both men’s perceptions warped by heights of stress and emotion. 

Perhaps, whether fast or slow, they give way to the impulse to press hands and lips together, quiet and hesitant like the first time they kissed in the shadows of Garreg Mach, or ungentle and harsh and sharp-edged like the starved, wounded animals that live under their skins these days-

Or perhaps they venture further still, precipitated by one or the other’s hand shifting elsewhere by accident or intention, it matters not- clothes rearranged but not removed, ragged breaths and soft gasps punctuating the quiet, desires amplified for being pent and contained and concentrated over the years, muted by traces of grief and fear, made ragged by the inescapable knowledge that they are no longer in equilibrium, and may never be again-

Or maybe in the end, they do little else but sit together in quiet as close to comfortable as they can get, allowing themselves just the solace of the others’ presence, their proximity. Words are exchanged. Not many, and more carefully spoken than any discussions they ever had at Garreg Mach- then, they skirted something more like... divots in the ground that might possibly break an ankle if not avoided. 

Now- if either of them fall, it’s the end. 

~~~

Eventually, their own bodies provide unavoidable reminders of the passing time. Hunger, fatigue- and even without those, the background awareness of their own hearts beating, the long slow countdown of mortality. 

Rain rattles on the wooden shutters, louder now. Dedue stirs first, Hubert following more sluggishly, only dimly aware of the Duscurian’s fingers touching the underside of his chin briefly before he pulls away.

“So. Shall we fight now?” he inquires, his almost-light tone an unsettling match to the brief, knife-edge smile that crosses his face, scars shifting minutely in its wake. “Not quite a duel to suit one of your Empire operas, perhaps, but...”

For one magnesium-brilliant moment, Hubert wants it more than he’s wanted anything in his _life_. Spell-patterns for Ragnarok begin to form half-unbidden in his mind- fire to burn out the rot in his veins, fire to cauterize his particular bloody, tainted stump of Adrestian history, fire to burn the room down and he and Dedue together with it- 

_No, Lady Edelgard still needs me-_

The thought shatters the spell just before heat ignites from his fingertips. Mutual destruction no longer an option- he doesn’t like the odds of it being otherwise, not while they’re both in the same room. Unless he wants to gamble that Dedue would peaceably await the killing blow- unlikely, with his eyes like green steel levelly regarding the mage- even if Hubert could loose a deadly spell or pull one of his poisoned knives quickly enough, the momentum from Dedue rushing him would still be lethal. And then, his emperor would be hurt more by his loss than she would benefit from the scant measure of extra safety gained by the Duscurian’s death. A bad trade. Unacceptable. 

(By that token, it makes little sense for Dedue to not attack him now, less that he didn’t finish Hubert off earlier - low risk, high reward if he wants Edelgard to fall. _Weak,_ says his father’s voice at once, says his _own_ voice, but for all that- no matter how long he observes the quiet strength and dignity still remaining in the man before him who has lost so much, he can see no _weakness_.)

He shakes his head once, briskly. He does not need to say ‘not _now_.’ Dedue knows. They’ve always known, from the moment they started carefully circling each other back at the academy, that they would cast it all aside in a moment if their duty required it. 

Dedue’s scarred lip twists slightly- disappointment, or relief? “So.” he says again, after a moment- stoops to the floor and gathers Hubert’s nondescript cloak from where it fell- settles it over his shoulders and fastens in a movement so simple, domestic and _unfamiliar_ that Hubert’s heart judders again in his chest. Never since he was a child had anyone helped him dress, he’s never employed a valet-

_-he probably last did this for his liege_ , comes an unwelcome thought. 

Dedue’s hands stop on the clasps a moment longer than necessary, a light pressure on Hubert’s chest. 

“When this is all over, one way or another-” he says quietly, “-if I am still standing… I will look for you.”

And with nothing to say to that, Hubert leaves.

He’ll return with sufficient backup within the hour. Dedue will already be gone. He’ll still come, knowing this. 

He’ll find the scarf where he dropped it, the only thing left behind. 

~~~

As always, Hubert alone remains with the Emperor after the numerous meetings or briefings conclude. He watches her sidelong as the other generals and advisors depart, obliquely reassured when her carriage remains erect when everyone else has gone, the determination and belief she radiates never easing. There is, after all, no reason to think of failure yet. They’ve suffered reverses, but also victories. Their erstwhile allies have promised to continue their support. 

She looks at him now, and the clarity in her lavender gaze shames him for his misgivings, his private errors and missteps of the last few weeks. “Is there anything else that should be addressed before luncheon, Hubert?”

The minister hesitates, hoping he’s not about to sour her appetite. The side of his neck throbs where the beginnings of a truly spectacular bruise lie concealed under his high collar despite Dedue’s magic easing some of the pain and damage. “Just one more minor matter, my lady.” he notes as he carefully replaces some documents in a folio, amazed at how off-hand his voice sounds. He doesn’t look up, but can feel the Emperor’s attention remain on him. “I have determined that the possibility of Dedue Molinaro’s presence in the city is credible.” 

“...Dimitri’s vassal.” Edelgard remarks, thoughtful. 

Hubert is not religious, but he’ll pray to _her_ in these heartbeats while she considers the matter. _Tell me to hunt him. Tell me to kill him. I cannot refuse your order. Take the decision out of my hands-_ He closes the folio and looks to his lady attentively, forcefully ignoring the way his heart twists in his chest. 

The pause is not long. “Just as blinded by hatred and delusion as his lord.” She shakes her head. “Have his description circulated to the city and gate guards. They can imprison or send him to join his king if he turns up. Otherwise, we have larger concerns than one stray warrior.”

_Cinnamon tea on his lips. Dark, calloused fingers gently tracing his own marred ones, bare of gloves. His father’s eyes bulging silent hatred as he dies on the expensive Almyran rug, poisoned by alkaloids concentrated from a certain spice-_

A bitter laugh tries and fails to burst out of his chest. Von Vestras have better control than that. “Yes, my lady.”

~~~

After issuing the necessary instructions, Hubert returns to the cells to trade out some enciphered reports for a different set from his tiny workspace down there, his mind a curious mostly-blank, movements more or less automatic. Not unexpectedly, his sleep last night was poor, and only his third cup of coffee is keeping him upright. He might have to send his apologies for luncheon and just stay in his apartments for a few hours- but no, not after he ducked out of that dinner on half a pretext, and damned if he wouldn’t have preferred to suffer the Baron von Erhardt’s matchmaking rather than what that led to-

It’s the touch of guilt, perhaps, for even entertaining the thought of excusing himself from lunch with his lady that causes the mage to feel eyes on him, hear his name said almost indistinctly, hesitate midstep and look up- 

And meet the Goddess’ glittering gaze again. 

_It’s all right, Hubert_ , comes the voice again- _it’s all right_ . _If it’s too much to bear, the thought that this was all chance- bad rolls of a dockman’s dented dice, over and over and over again- if it’s easier, or more comforting for it to be that each development was too unlikely to be anything other than calculated malice or caprice-_

_-then I can take that burden from you. Call it divine punishment for what you have done to my followers, my children. Or just the cruel whimsy of an alien entity._

_All you have to do is believe._

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the song 'Love and War' by Fleurie!
> 
> Finally here with food for this lovely ship ;0; special thanks of course to [jo2ukes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jo2ukes/pseuds/jo2ukes), the CEO of this little ship, my fellow deduebert shippers, and everyone in the FE3H Rarepair Port server on Discord that helped support me!
> 
> I've often wondered what it would have been like for Dedue, hiding in Enbarr for months after Dimitri dies in the Verdant Wind and Silver Snow routes :'( combine that with this particular rarepair and you get what I've spent the last few months on! Hope you enjoy!


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